


time differential

by owlinaminor



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Mentions of Blood, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: Oh great, it's Liv.Three times Liv bursts in.





	time differential

**Author's Note:**

> sony puts in ONE LINE and the next thing i know i've got a whole backstory for these two written in my head.
> 
> inspired by [this art,](https://twitter.com/hattersarts/status/1076156761919442945) which i have looked at for approximately five hours now.
> 
> title (and a couple of in-text quotations) from pynchon's _the crying of lot 49_.

 

**1.**

"May, you're not gonna believe this.”

_Slam.  Thud-thud-thud.  Crash._

May’s doesn’t look up.  This is her second read-through of _The Crying of Lot 49_ this week—if she has to do a literature requirement she’s going to write her final paper on the most insane novel on the syllabus, even if it takes committing the goddamn tattooed man scene to memory.

“—dt, _God help this old tattooed man, meant also a time differential, a vanishingly small instant in which change had to be confronted at last for what it was—”_

“May.  May.  May.”  There’s another _thud_ —backpack—a _scritch-scritch-scritch—_ bare feet on cheap carpet—and then a soft _oof_ as the mattress sinks beside her.  Liv is sweaty and vibrating, as though she just ran a marathon—or from Pupin to 110, which is pretty much the same thing.

“May.”  Liv turns and moves closer, close enough that her nose presses sharply into May’s cheek.  The contact is cold—temperature must’ve dropped since May was last outside—but not unwelcome.

May sighs, softens.  Oedipa Maas and her revelations will have to wait a few minutes.  She closes the book and turns to face those intense green eyes.

“Hey, Liv.  You got the fellowship.”

Liv grins—bright as a bolt of lightning.  “I got the fellowsh—wait, how did you know that?”

May rolls her eyes.  “If they didn’t give it to you, I was gonna go up to Pupin and punch every white-bearded asshole I saw.  And then I’d sneak onto the roof and trash a couple of telescopes, for good measure.”

 _“May.”_   Liv laughs—this brilliant bubbling thing, the sound of champagne bursting free—and shifts, suddenly propped up, her elbows level with May’s ears.  May looks at her—really _looks_ at her, this ridiculous girl with her long cheekbones and her fiery eyes and her critical mass of hair, and May tries not to get sentimental but god, she must’ve read the right books as a kid or something because the universe really did her a solid here.

“I’m gonna be the greatest physicist who ever lived, May,” Liv says.  “I’m gonna crack quantum computing, and then I’m gonna prove the multiverse theory, and then I’m gonna win a bunch of Nobels and set up a lab with a million-dollar budget and—”

“Of course you are,” May replies.  “But maybe take off your glasses first?”

“Oh.”  And Liv is still smiling but it’s softer now, melted, like a marshmallow stuck over a fire for a minute too long.  “Yeah.”

May reaches up and pulls the glasses off, places them on top of her book on the bedside table.  Liv doesn’t waste time—kisses as hard and fast as she talks, tastes like sweat and coffee and victory.

 

 

**2.**

“May, I know you’re here.”

May opens the door slowly.  _Click, creeeeeak._   And Liv bursts through—no _hello_ or _how are you_ or _it’s been four years_ just the _tap tap tap_ of boots across the linoleum the _thonk_ of a purse dropped onto the counter the _thud_ of ass hitting chair and May nearly drops the glass she’s holding, struck by how out of place Liv looks—slick jacket and shiny high-heeled boots among the peeling paint and stack of tacky mugs and _since when does Liv wear heels—_

“Look, May,” Liv says.  “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but—okay, and I know you’re not the biggest fan of Alchemax or whatever, but seriously, this is such a huge opportunity, my team is looking for a new mechie and you’d be so good at it, you’re so creative and you know all the best engines inside and out—”

It’s as though she dropped through a portal from the past.  Not too implausible, either—May doesn’t know exactly what Alchemax is working on these days but she’s heard the rumors—only Liv’s hair is longer, rowdier, as though she doesn’t even take the time to comb it out, and she’s got new circular glasses with a faint reflective glint like the windows of expensive cars, and she’s _wearing heels._   But she’s here in May’s kitchen, gaze swinging between the pot of canned soup on the stove and the bag of sour cream and onion chips open on the counter, fingers rapping on her thigh, restless, as though any second now she’ll cross the room and take May’s face in her hands and—

“—and we’d get to work together,” Liv is saying, “like bio lab freshman year, remember, when you made me go through every step of the germination experiment ten times and then beat me by ten points on the lab report, everyone at this place is so smart and driven and I really think it’s perfect for you—”

“Liv.”  May takes two steps forward and sets her glass down on the counter.  It lands with a soft _clink._   “I don’t need a new job.”

“Sure,” Liv waves her hand, chewed-up fingernails catching the faint fluorescent light.  “But how much is Columbia paying you?  Twenty-five grand?  At Alchemax, you’d make four times that.  Plus you wouldn’t need to scramble for publications and grants, the funding is practically endless as long as you’re getting results, and you’re working with me, of course you would be—”

“But Alchemax has no respect for regulations, for replication, for—for half of the scientific method,” May replies.  She tries to keep her voice low but she feels it creeping up, resentment bubbling to the surface like a baking soda volcano gone wrong.  “You start using equipment before it’s properly tested, do experiments that go against every rule in any sane scientist’s ethics, and that’s only what I’ve heard underground at conferences.”

“But you could make that better, May.  _We_ could make that better.”  Liv stands and _click-click-click_ crosses the three-step distance between her and May, green eyes wide and open.  “And you can’t tell me that you don’t miss this, miss _us—_ ”

“Liv.”  May holds up her hand.  She holds it high, close enough to the overhead light that the silver loop around her finger is unmistakable, even behind self-reflecting glass.

“You—”  Liv’s hands drop to her sides.  “You said a ring would get in the way in the lab.”

 “Yeah, well.”  May shrugs.  “Ben’s a bit traditional, and I can compromise.”

“But you wouldn’t—” Liv lurches forward, reaches up as though to grab May’s hand and then stops, frozen in place.  “You’d never—I can’t—”

May steps back.  “Keep your voice down.  He’s sleeping in the other room.”

She sees Liv’s face fall, her shoulders droop, and—sighs, softens.  “Liv, we had something, once.  Years ago.  But you fucked it up.  I’ve moved on.  I’m sorry.”

Liv stands frozen for a moment—mouth open, hand outstretched.  And then she squares her shoulders, picks up her purse, and _click-clack_ s out the door, leaving May to a boiling pot of soup and the faint sense that she’d dreamed the whole thing.

 

 

**3.**

“May?”

The door doesn’t close properly.  Not since those spider-kids dragged Kingpin’s henchmen into her quiet Queens neighborhood.  Ever since she saw the news from Brooklyn, she’s been camped out on the couch, praying none of them come back.  Well, except Miles—that boy’s not bad, said _please_ and _thank you_ all polite when he asked for a suit, though he’s gotta keep better track of his shoelaces.

But this isn’t Miles.  Nor is it Peter B., or Gwen, or any of the others.  They all called her _Aunt May,_ quiet and reverent, while this voice is sadder, thick with something aching and familiar, like a memory given solid form.

May stands, grabs the baseball bat, pushes the door with her index finger.  It swings out— _fsssh—_ and nearly hits the person standing outside.  She’s battered, blood dripping from her mouth and coils of plastic trailing from a pack on her back, but May would recognize those green eyes anywhere.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Liv says.  She speaks slowly, taking deep breaths between each word.  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

May looks at her.  Really _looks,_ the way she hadn’t gotten to yesterday when her home was crashed and split and shattered.  Liv seems half-tangible, her limbs clearly weak as she reaches up one hand to grab onto the door frame, her broken goggles nearly slipping off her nose.  And on top of that, there are dark circles under her eyes, streaks of silver barely contained by the purple dye in her hair, and winkles, all these wrinkles, each one pulling at May as though they’re her own scars.

How long has it been, now?  Thirty years?  Forty?  She barely knows this impossible physicist, this cartoon supervillain, this monster who would attack a child just because he wanted to save his city.

“May.”  Liv looks at May, and there are galaxies swirling in her eyes, begging to be pulled home.  “Can I come in?”

May sighs, softens.  Takes a step back and pulls the door in—it creaks faintly on unstable hinges.

“You know, I’m not great at medicine,” she says as Liv lingers at the threshold, staring at the broken vase, the shattered glassware, the toppled stacks of books.  “But Peter had a first-aid kit somewhere, I can probably find that.  And I can make tea.  And—hey, sit down,” she adds, as Liv oscillates in place.  “Couch isn’t broken.”

Liv sits— _squssssh—_ and sinks into the couch, plastic splaying out behind her.  One of her appendages is still trailing outside, so May pulls it inside and shuts the door as best she can before heading towards the hall closet.  She has to rustle through three boxes of engine parts and two of Peter’s old chem equipment, but eventually she finds it, stashed up on a shelf where only a lanky grad student could easily reach.

“What happened to you?” May asks, padding back into the living room with first-aid supplies in tow.

“Well.”  Liv moves to sit up, then groans and lets her head fall back into the couch.  “I kinda got hit by a bus?  From another dimension?  It’s hard to explain.”

“I’d like you to try,” May replies.  “But it doesn’t have to be now.”

She opens the kit—Peter kept this so organized, there are labels on the different types of band-aids, what a typical chemist, and she has to stand there quietly for a moment to lock her jabs at him into a back corner of her mind before fishing out the Neosporin and the gauze.

May sits next to Liv.  She keeps a distance at first, remembers the monitors at Barnard social events telling her to _be ladylike_ a thousand years ago, but then realizes this is impossible without contact.

“Can you take the suit off?”

“Oh—shit, yeah.”  Liv reaches a hand under her back and hits something, causes the apparatus around her to deflate.  May reaches out to help her pull her T-shirt over her head, automatic, as though they’re college kids in a cramped dorm room again—and she’s slipping suddenly, touching this ridiculous woman who has always run hot, always runs when she could’ve walked, flies when she could’ve run—

_“—a time differential, a vanishingly small instant in which change had to be confronted at last for what it was—”_

“Liv, what were you _doing?”_

The question slips out before May can stop it, plaintive, trapped now between her hand and the matted skin on Liv’s back, rough like a gear knocked out of orbit.

“I don’t know.”  Liv brings her hands up to her face and shudders—and she’s shaking suddenly, vibrating on the wrong frequencies, reminding May all too much of those kids stuck in the wrong dimension.  “I don’t know.  I thought—I thought it was _our_ collider, I thought he cared about the science, but that asshole just wanted to make a new family for himself, like some kind of 1950s fucking facsimile of an actual loving relationship—I hope that smirking cinder block bastard got what he deserved, I hope they put him in prison and never let him fund any bullshit science again.”

May shifts her hand, starts rubbing slow circles into Liv’s back.  “They will,” she says.  “They will.”

“You were right, you know,” Liv says quietly.  “I should never have taken that job.  I fucked it all up—my career, us, everything.”

“I’m always right,” May replies.  “But we can talk about it in the morning.  Now, let’s get you to a bed—it’ll be easier to clean you up there.”

She pulls away slowly, careful not to aggravate any open wounds, and stands up, offers her hand to Liv.

Liv just stares—wide green eyes, long nose, high cheekbones, all so achingly familiar May wonders if the past forty-odd years haven’t been some terrible dream.

And then Liv coughs—sends a faint scattering of blood over her chest and down onto May’s couch.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

May just smiles, keeps her hand extended.  “I’ve gotten blood on my sheets before.  I can deal with it again.”

Liv takes May’s hand—her palm is wrinkled and slick with sweat but warm, her grip strong and steady.

 

**Author's Note:**

> not saying i'm going to write more of these ladies, but i _am_ seeing spiderverse for a third time tonight, so... watch this space.
> 
> come yell with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] time differential](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993276) by [sisi_rambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisi_rambles/pseuds/sisi_rambles)




End file.
